The King's Shilling

Thomas and Ferris fought their way through the forest at a full-fledged sprint, hurtling over downed logs, dodging trees, and sloshing through swamps. Their panic-stricken faces fully coated with dirt and sweat. Ferris' small feet, more than once, became tangled in the freshly sprouted ferns; each time, his rawboned body would collapse to the soft earth as quickly as a chunk of granite. He would scurry to his feet, spit out a mouthful of soil, and wave off Thomas' promise to leave him behind.

Thomas knew his weak and uncoordinated friend wouldn't make it much farther; he could hear the raucous wheezing in his gasps and see the exhaustion in his frightened, boyish face. As the sporadic musket fire grew softer, he slowed his pace to a fast walk and began scouting the terrain for temporary concealment. Ferris, in a slow and slouched stride, tailed behind having trouble catching his breath. Thomas finally spotted a heavily vegetated area next to the slow moving, foam-filled stream. He pointed out the area to Ferris then turned and scanned the landscape they had just dashed across.

“Have we run far enough, Thomas?” Ferris asked in his adolescent, high-pitched voice.

“For now,” Thomas replied calmly, wiping sweat from his rugged face. "There's still a lot of shooting up on the road. Keep a good eye on that swamp."

Thomas had no idea if they had achieved a safe distance. It was hard to say. The forest was dense and full of many obstacles such as overlaying thorn bushes which were almost impossible fight through, and knee-high swamp with mud so thick that it had absorbed Thomas' shoes. He anticipated the farmers; they would be out hear hunting them soon--Ferris especially. He wasn't concerned about their British comrades looking for them; they had enough to worry about with their chaotic retreat back to Boston.

“What do you have left?” Thomas asked.

“The uniform on my back," Ferris replied. "I let everything else go as we ran."

Thomas stormed over to Ferris, leveled his eyes to Ferris' pimply face. “So what you're saying is...you left a trail?!”

"I couldn't run with all that weight, Thomas!" Ferris cried. His voiced cracked on the word weight.

Thomas cursed, shook his head, and walked over to the stream. He picked up a stone and launched it into the foamy water. Two deer downstream bolted away. He wasn't surprised that Ferris had left a trail; he also wasn't surprised that he had, once again, found himself thrown into another risky situation because of Ferris' poor judgment. Both boys grew up together in the coastal city of Plymouth, England. Their fathers had been shipmates together on the HMS Cumberland, a merchant ship which sailed to Jamaica three times a year. When the boys were eight-years-old, both men were slain by buccaneers off the coast of Hispaniola. With their mothers' working day and night, their contrasting friendship developed into a brotherhood. Thomas, the tall, intimidating youth who earned everyone's respect through acts of kindness and generosity, always watched out for his scrawny, loudmouthed friend. After school one day, Thomas fought off a press gang who were trying to force Ferris to enlist into the Navy. Ferris was grateful that his friend saved him from the Navy; although several weeks later he accepted the "king's shilling", the bonus paid by the crown for enlisting in the Army. Thomas was outraged over his friend's decision but refused to let him run off alone. Thomas enlisted the next day.

"Thomas?" Ferris asked.

"Yes?"

"What are we to do now?"



The march to Concord

The formation was perfectly dress-right-dress as they marched in-sync towards Concord on Colonel Smith’s “Secret mission”. To Thomas, it didn’t seem like a big secret with the colonialists. It was early in the morning and every town they marched through the townspeople were awake adn restless watching the soldiers from windows and doorways. Thomas felt uneasy and confused; none of the soldiers knew any details about the mission they were partaking in. Earlier, they had been awoken and ordered to prepare their uniform for a march east. Preparing a uniform in the British Army took at least two hours; this time they were instructed to "rush it"--a rare order. Halfway through waxing his hair with the remaining candle wax, an uptight sergeant called everyone into formation. Thomas' shoes looked pathetic, his buttons were lacking a proper shine, and his uniform was full of wrinkles . Now as he traveled down a muddy road, scattered with cow manure, he was no longer concerned about his appearance. He was comfortable with his musket skills and that was all that mattered.

Several hours into the march, word was passed back that they were marching to Concord to search for two high ranking militiamen that had been causing trouble around Boston. He dreaded leaving Boston, it usually meant problems. He knew he could handle himself, but he was always concerned about Ferris. Ever since they're enlistment, Ferris felt the need to impress everyone. And whenever he tried to prove himself by putting on a show, Thomas usually paid for it.

At sunrise, the regiment came to a rapid halt in outside of Lexington. Thomas sensed that something was taking place around the bend. Every few minutes, a tense and worrisome looking messenger on horseback would come galloping down the road and report to Lieutenant Campbell. In response, the serious looking commander would summon his sergeants and brief them in a tense--but hushed-- tone. Anxiety in the formation was high. Some of the men were giddy with excitement and laughter, while others looked around fiddled with their weapons frantically. One soldier discreetly stepped out of formation and tried to catch a glimpse of the town. He stepped back into ranks frowning and shrugging his shoulders.

Eventually a smirking sergeant slowly strolled down the left side of the formation. "Listen here men!" the sergeant began. "Around the way here, is the town of Lexington," he paused in his sarcastic speech and pointed to the bend in the road. "And inside Lexington, we have a few drunk militiamen standing outside a tavern...refusing the British Army passage through their town." Some of the men began to laugh. "Do you know what we are going to do, men?" He looked sternly at the formation. His eyes bulged with a hint of sadism. "If we have to step over every dead man in Lexington...we're going to pass through that town!" Everyone cheered.

Thomas glanced back at Ferris and noticed that he was nervously digging through one of his pouches. He looked up, made eye contact with Thomas, and raised his "Brown Bess" musket in the ear with a big smile. Thomas winked and returned the smile.

Suddenly, several sporadic shots rang out, followed by a volley of musket fire. The volley was so loud and thunderous that it caused Ferris to jump and drop his musket. The whole formation crouched low as musket balls whizzed and snapped through the trees overhead. Several severed branches and leaves fell onto the ranks.

Around the corner and over the hill, a the men listened to several "Huzzah!" war cries over the British officer's directives. The soldier next to Thomas mumbled a comment about a few drunken fools. Thomas nodded his head in agreement.

Several musket volleys later, the front of the formation erupted in cheers and chants, then the order came to move forward. The British had the colonists on the run. Several victory volleys could be heard as they received the order to move into the town.

As the rear formation rounded the corner, their formation marched out onto a field where several dead and wounded militiamen had fallen. One British soldier could be seen weeping from a severe shoulder wound. His comrade had a pretty young lady at gunpoint, ordering her to find water and bandages for the man. Other women sat by the corpses of the dead colonialist, sobbing and praying. One young girl held a mutilated, bloody corpse in her arms screaming “Daddy” over and over. The blood covered the little girls yellow dress. Thomas heart sank; he wanted to cry for her--or at least walk over and give her a hug. None of the women would look up at the superior British formations as they marched by. The town was engulfed in what looked like a sinister fog from all of the expended gun powder. What a sight to see, Thomas thought.

Hours later, when the regiment entered Concord, the company was ordered to search several houses that possibly held a stolen British cannon. On the way to one farm, three militia men made a dash for a stone wall. Thomas raised his musket to his shoulder and fired a hurried, unaimed shot which missed. One militiaman fell to the ground after being shot in the leg by a British soldier. The militiaman began to crawl towards the wall but was quickly gunned down by eighteen or so muskets. The body was smoldering from all of the closely fired shots. Thomas noticed that the man's shirt was on fire. Ferris was boasting to everyone that he had been the one who initially shot the man in the leg. Thomas highly doubted this, realizing that Ferris hadn't stopped shaking since the first shot of the morning.

After searching several houses and barns, the company rejoined the rest of the regiment in the center of Concord. Other active skirmishes could be heard all around. Some of the houses, along with the courthouse were burning, replacing the bright, blue sky with thick, black smoke. Even so, Thomas noticed that most of the soldiers were treating the town's occupants with dignity and respect. He watched as an older soldier pulled out a small doll from his satchel and hand it to a little girl, which she accepted with a shy smile. Another soldier was paying an old lady for food and water. Down by the courthouse, Thomas noticed Ferris making his way towards a small house. The look on Ferris' face startled Thomas.

Thomas ran after Ferris, calling out his name. By the time Thomas got to the house, Ferris was forcing an old woman out of the house by poking her in the legs with his bayonet. A young boy, most likely the woman's grandson, punched Ferris in the leg, hardly phasing Ferris. Thomas, sprinting now, shouted at Ferris to let her go. He couldn't understand why Ferris was doing committing this cruel act. He watched Ferris release the women and reenter the house. Outside the door the older women was on her knees crying as the young boy stood comforting her. Thomas darted into the house and grabbed Ferris by his collar. He noticed that Ferris had already set fire to a bed. Thomas quickly smothered it.

“People live here," Thomas shouted, staring into his friend's sadistic face. "What’s gotten into you?”

Ferris stared at him angrily and barged out of the house. Thomas followed him repeating his question.

Ferris spun around and began to explain. “I had orders from Sergeant Rollins to torch the place, Thomas. A stash of guns was found in the bedroom, and the old lady wouldn’t comply with my orders. She had the nerve to ask me if I was old enough to carry a musket.”

“I only hope God will forgive you, Ferris,” Thomas said somberly as he stared at the small puncture wounds on the old woman's leg.

Eventually, the retreat was given; they were to march back to Boston. Rumors had it that the British were outnumbered by the scattered militiamen and they had to fall back for reinforcements. The sounds of musket fire could be heard in all directions. One musket ball passed through Henry’s backpack without Ferris even noticing it. The soldier in front of him surely did as he dove for the ground screaming “a bloody sharpshooter!”

The regiment began to split due to the officer’s failed effort to keep the companies together. Thomas and Ferris’ company started down a small road which they all hoped would take them back towards Lexington. The Lieutenant seemed confused; every few minutes he would pull out his map, slowly begin spinning it, stare at it for a few seconds, then he would fold it up and put it back in his pouch.

As they passed by one house a one-armed man stood at his doorway with a bottle of booze in his hand and laughed loudly at the disorganized formation. “Liberty is ours!" the man shouted at the passing soldiers. "Do you hear that you British pigs? Liberty is ours!” Most men paid no attention to the disabled elderly man. Everyone seemed to be more concerned about the shadows in the forest that seemed to be moving with them. Ferris, breathing heavily from anger, couldn’t let it go. He walked up to the old man’s home and shout that he should "shut his bloody mouth" if he knew what was good for him. In response, the old man spat in Henry’s face and laughed. Some of the soldiers chuckled and made comments.

“He showed you, little boy!” One British soldier boasted.

Thomas broke formation and slowly trotted towards Ferris and the old man with a "here we go again" expression. Thomas shouted when he noticed Ferris raise his musket. He picked up his pace, but it was too late. In one quick motion, Ferris had slashed the man’s throat with his bayonet. Blood poured from the old man as he dropped to the ground, twitching violently.

The whole company came to a stop and stared at the macabre sight before them. One soldier ran to the old man's assistance and began to bandage his spouting wound. Lieutenant Campbell ran over and placed both hands over his head, as if he was going to pull his own hair out of his head.

“Private Wood!" Campbell shouted as he pointed to Ferris. "You will hang for this. There was no reason for that man to be killed...especially in that awful, inhumane manner! You will hang! Take his weapon Sergeant, and then get us moving!”

"Back in formation, men!" The sergeant bellowed.

Before the company got the order to march, two men came out from behind a woodpile next to the old man’s house shouting, running at the British formation like wild dogs. One man bore a long rifle with an attached bayonet; the other man was wielding a hatchet like a wild savage. The man with the rifle fired while charging the ranks. A British soldier fell backwards onto the muddy road, twitching just as the old man had a minute before. The other man ran to the nearest British soldier and buried it into the side of his skull. The soldier, looking confused, ran towards his sergeant with the hatchet hanging loosely from his left temple. He collapsed at the sergeant's feet, the hatchet falling free from his skull. Thomas shot the man hatchet-wielding man in the face, just as Lieutenant Campbell stuck his sword in the other mans chest. More militiamen opened fire from the forest from behind the house, several moved in towards the road for better aim. The British seemed to be outnumbered but kept fighting.

Thomas ran over to Ferris, took him by the arm, and quickly led him into the woods.

“Stay with me Ferris and don’t stop!” Thomas screamed. "Do you understand?"

Lieutenant Campbell, realizing that both men where deserting, fired a quick shot at them as they fled into the forest.



The Absent Plan

“I don’t know what we are going to do." Thomas said, standing by the stream. "I know you don’t want to hear this, Ferris, but I don't know what we are going to do."

“I’m sorry I got you into this, Thomas.” Ferris said.

Thomas didn’t want to hear it. What happened today was the most sinful mania he had ever seen, most of this being carried out by his childhood friend. He couldn’t understand what had made Ferris do any of that. He knew that he didn’t resent the Colonialists; many times he spoke about how they deserved their freedom. They fled England to be left alone, he would say. Thomas was always in agreement.

“North?” Ferris asked..

“Henry!" Thomas whispered loudly. "I told you, I don’t know! The only thing I do know is that if either the British, or the militia find us, we are dead men. We need to move."

As they advanced through the forest they began to spot the militia everywhere. The roads and trails were impossible, even if they only wanted to cross them. It seemed as if every man strong enough to carry a weapon was chasing the British back to Boston. Most militiamen seemed to be excited and cheerful about today's battles. Most men were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Absurd, Thomas thought, most of these men will be dead before they even get close to the city. How could a bunch of farmers think that they would actually defeat the mightiest Army in the world? On the other hand, he respected, and even envied, their stand for freedom.

Thomas and Ferris stayed low behind a wobbly stone wall as they watched a group of five militiamen slowly walk down a trail. As they grew closer, Thomas could tell that they were looking out into the forest. All the other groups that had passed by seemed to be in a hurry, not even glancing into the forest. Then he noticed that one of the men was actually a British prisoner, an officer.

“Stay low and don’t move,” Thomas whispered to Ferris. "I think they're looking for us."

"It’s Lieutenant Campbell!" Ferris whispered. "If he’s captured, and the only one left out of our company, we can return without anyone knowing of my hanging. Maybe we can even shoot him from here.”

“What if Campbell's not the only survivor?" Thomas replied. "Now shut your mouth before they hear us!”

Thomas and Ferris observed one militiaman stop and scan forest. Ferris began to squat down even lower behind the stone wall. As he slid his shoulder down the wall, two top stones shifted and fell to the ground. Two rifles sounded as Ferris darted off into the dark woods.

“Ferris, don’t move...get back here!” Thomas shouted as he dropped his musket and raised his hands in the air. It was hopeless for him to run.

“Get back here!” He repeated. He watched Ferris get shot in the arm as he ran away. Thomas surrendered himself to the three militiamen. One greeted him by slamming the butt of his musket to the chest. Thomas was hit so hard he felt several ribs crack.

As he was escorted out onto the trail, he realized that Henry was right, the prisoner was Lieutenant Campbell. The lieutenant's face had been beaten so hard, it was hard to recognize him.

“That’s the boy’s best friend. He fled with him after murdering your father.” Lieutenant Campbell stated to the husky man who had butt stroked Thomas.

Thomas looked at the beast of a man who was not like the other young, cheerful patriots headed towards Boston. This man was an animal. All he could see through his bushy beard was madness in his bloodshot, yellow eyes. He grabbed Thomas by the back of the neck and walked him to the center of the trail.

“On your knees!” the enraged man ordered.

Thomas could feel the man breathing fast. He could smell his rotten breath. Thomas was shaking with fear, as the man was shaking with fury.

“You might want to come out and see this, you British bastard!” The behemoth screamed out into the dark forest.

Thomas felt a sharp edge touch to his throat. Then he realized that he would die. He knew that the man was going to kill him the way the man’s father was slain by Ferris. Before he could struggle to get away he felt the knife swiftly slice through his neck. The man pulled back on his hair to slice further as Thomas grabbed for his throat. He was dead in seconds.


Two days later, with nowhere to run, Ferris turned himself into a British patrol along the Charles River. He had tears in his eyes. He had watched the ferocious slaughter of his best friend from a distance and couldn't rid the guilt he carried. He wept all day, and all night. In the morning he was lead out into the rain and quickly executed by a drenched, impatient firing squad.